Take My Hand, Hold it Tight
by Dancing Through Daisies
Summary: "Everything was falling into place for Edison, but was falling out of place for Eric." / As Mr. Sweet gradually loses his memory, he and his son try to hold on for as long as possible before Eddie becomes another face his dad can't remember. Eric&Eddie father/son relationship. Slight Peddie.


**My first HOA story, yay! **

**This was just an idea that popped into my head a few days ago and I finally had time to write it out. Besides, who doesn't love "father and son," angst? :) **

**Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own House of Anubis**

Take My Hand, Hold it Tight

* * *

It started when he was still the headmaster at his son's school (or was it? Everything is a little fuzzy now). Edison wasn't attending his school yet, but Eric Sweet was making arrangements for his son to fly to Liverpool so he could live with him in England. He had just booked Edison's flight during his lunch break and was about to ring him in America to deliver the news.

However, that was before Lewis and Clarke decided to set off a stink bomb in the main hallway.

After braving the stench and opening every school window and door there was with the help of Ms. Andrews, Ms. Valentine and Victor, he returned to his office to resume his activities. He sat down behind his desk and straightened his blazer. He sniffed loudly and reached for his telephone…

Wait, whom was he going to call again? He had picked up the phone to call someone…someone _really_ important that involved Edison. He remembered that much but Edison would still most likely be sleeping due to the time difference between America and England.

So whom was he going to give a ring?

Oh Ellen, _of course!_ Sweetie was about to call Edison's mother to talk about the plane reservation and how Edison would be flying to Liverpool in one week. He wanted to tell her so she could prepare their son in any way possible, because from what Ellen had said over the phone, their offspring had been surrounding himself with the "wrong people," and taking part in the "wrong things." Edison was sure to take this the "wrong way."

Mr. Sweet chuckled to himself; that was just plain silly of him to forget! He blamed the odor from the stink bomb for making his memory falter—it really was an awful smell and it did make his head feel a little dizzy. He brushed it aside with another small laugh and pulled out two detention slips for the infamous pranking duo. He didn't think anything more of the memory slip.

(Although he really should have.)

* * *

"My goodness, my goodness…" Mr. Sweet muttered to himself as he raced across the front lawn of his school as fast as his forty-four-year-old legs would take him. How could he have forgotten to pick up his one and only son from the airport? How stupid of him—he was so excited earlier, telling the staff that his son who lived in America (purposely leaving out the vital information of how Eric left Edison, not the other way around) was coming to Liverpool to stay with him. He was so proud and highly anticipating 8:15 p.m. to come, when Edison's flight was due to land…but now it was 9:05 p.m. and Mr. Sweet had nine very upset voicemails from his son, all of them saying things like, "so you didn't want me then and still don't, I presume, since you're not here. _Nice going, Eric_."

Mr. Sweet was just _so_ wrapped up in grading the mid-term science papers, _so_ wrapped up in keeping Williamson out of trouble, _so_ wrapped up with Victor's words about how if they just had the Mask, they could have all the tears of gold they wanted…

So much was going on. That was what he told himself. So much that he had forgotten to set his alarm. He sighed as he got inside his car and turned the keys in the ignition.

Sweetie was so determined to make up for those missing years. All he wanted was a fresh start for him and his son and to forget about the ten years that he had missed of Edison's life. He would just have to look past the whole, "Osirian Prophecy," and continue where he had left off in his son's life (although he knows Edison isn't in first grade anymore and he is positive that all his adult teeth have replaced the holes that had once lined his mouth.)

He really wanted Edison to call him "dad," again…

It didn't look like that was going to happen any time soon since he already screwed up.

("So you finally decided to show up, huh? What took you so long, forget who I was since it's been _that long?_)

* * *

It's already the first day of school and Edison had already made an enemy with none other than Patricia Williamson. Why oh why did it have to be Patricia? Eric remembered Ellen saying that Edison had taken a liking to the, "wrong people," but he had more faith in his son than his mother did. Ellen must have been given false information: from what Eric remembered, his Edison was a good little boy who liked to please his parents and smile much too often. How could such a sweet little boy like Edison go down the wrong path?

(Wait, was Edison's newly found behavior _his fault? _No, don't be silly Eric…)

Eric would give a long sigh whenever he heard the two teens bicker in the hallway or argue when they walked to class or when they were to blame for every food fight or when they purposefully hired a god-awful band to "spice up," the masquerade ball or—

Wait, for two people that hated each other so much, Edison and Ms. Williamson sure did spend _a lot_ of time together.

(Coincidence? He thought not.)

So when Eric had called Edison over the loud speaker to his office to chat about "father and son bonding," Edison began bringing up the past. Eric had to fight, fight, fight to keep the tears back and the, "I wish I could tell you the real reasons, son," excuse. All of a sudden, he asked Edison why he hadn't left England yet if he was so unhappy. He had no idea why he blurted it out like a mad man because he wanted his son to never leave him, never even _think_ about leaving him… Eric did just get him back after all and—

"…but now there's stuff to stay for," Edison muttered ever so quietly that Sweetie barely caught it. Edison wouldn't meet his father's eyes, looking down right embarrassed to have revealed such a personal thought to the man who left him behind.

It touched Eric's heart that his son told him something so private, and his heart yearned for that "something," to have been him but he knew it wasn't not him by a long shot.

So…what could be keeping Edison here in England? Mr. Sweet couldn't think of anything or anyone who would make Edison want to stay. He simply could not remember any time, any memory that would have given him a clue to what it could be.

He guessed that Edison didn't catch his confusion since he told him, "just don't tell _her_, okay?" and turned to walk out the door.

Oh…Mr. Sweet gets it now. How could he have missed _that?_ That would have been a great father-son bonding moment, him giving his son girl advice (although his own marriage crumbled and he didn't particularly like Patricia very much). Dang it, he cursed himself mentally, how could he have not remember all those times? It was so obvious!

"And for the last time, my name is _Eddie!_ How many times do I have to remind you?" Edison said snarkily before the door slammed shut.

Eric was confused again: since when did Edison start wanting to be called Eddie?

* * *

It was the End of the Year party at Anubis Hosue and Mr. Sweet was sitting with Edison—wait, Eddie, it's Eddie—_Eddie_ and they aren't talking, but rather sipping on punch and eating small pastries Trudy had made. Eric was about to dine on another when Eddie finally got the courage to break the silence.

"So Dad…ever heard of the term Osirian?"

Sweetie just about choked on his mini cupcake in surprise. Where would his son have ever heard that word? Such an odd word, Osirian…really it did sound rather strange, highly unusual…

Wait, _what's an Osirian?_ Sweetie had no idea what an Osirian was. Was it one of those hip teenage phrases that were constantly tossed around the hallways at school lately? Was it a food? A piece of clothing? A title of some sort? He had no clue to what an Osirian was—but he felt like he had heard of it before, but where…

He doesn't want to disappoint his son. They were finally in a spot where Eddie felt comfortable calling him Dad. He was not going to mess that up.

So he pretended that he knew the answer by telling his son he'll explain more, "when he's ready." Eddie—wait, his son's name is Edison, not Eddie—_Edison_ had doubt cloud his eyes. Did he know his dad was lying? Was he going to hate him again?

Sweetie didn't have time to react because Patricia came over to the two and pulled Edison—no, Eric, your son wants to be called Eddie—_Eddie_ away to dance with their friends. Osirian…oh goodness, that word was right on the tip of his tongue…

He was frustrated now. Why couldn't he remember?

(He started to worry then—but only a little bit.)

* * *

During Edison's senior year, Mr. Sweet decided to talk to someone about his memory. He still didn't really think it was a huge deal, he did have a lot to deal with being headmaster, a father, and the Seeker; he was bound to forget things here and there. It was when he researched what an Osirian was online that he decided getting help could be beneficial for not only him, but for Eddie too.

He was currently lying on a long sofa, looking up at the ceiling to Dr. Judith Perry's office. He brought his attention back to the therapist's voice.

"Tell me, what's your son's name again?"

"Edison Eric Sweet," he said, irritation evident in his voice. He just told her his son's name about an hour ago. Maybe she was the one with the faltering memory.

"Are you sure it isn't Edison Eric _Miller_?" She asked, peering at him over her glasses. "You said you and Ellen Miller, your ex-wife, had his name changed to Miller when he was six. It was around the time when you left for England."

Oh. That's right.

(How could he have forgotten?)

"Maybe you need to speak with someone who specializes in the hippocampus part of the brain. The part that deals with memory."

* * *

"No, no, no, no…" Eric Sweet mumbled into his son's shirt. He held Eddie in his arms, his limp, lifeless body now so very cold and so sad to look at. He couldn't be gone…not now…he was so young and had so much to live for—

"Eddie." He heard a girl say his son's name. She had dark hair, pale skin, and blue-grey eyes that were silently spilling out tears. Patricia Williamson. She was clutching Eddie's arm, trying to shake him awake but they both knew that he'd be "sleeping," for a long time.

What Eric doesn't know is why Patricia seemed so concerned for a boy that had once been her enemy. They had hated each other, gotten under each other's skin countless times and here she was, mourning over the death of his son? They weren't even friends…

….were they?

(Come on Eric remember…were they friends? Think, think…)

He can't. He's too angry that the girl who had disliked his son was the one acting sad and empty because he was gone. He knew Patricia was tough, but he never thought she'd sink this low.

"Get away from him!" He yelled at her, fury evident in his eyes. She looked up at Sweetie, her glassy eyes revealing utter confusion.

"What? No way," she spat back, her voice too choked up to sound even close to threatening. She was, however, not going to move.

"How dare you!" Mr. Sweet continued to yell. "How dare you put on this show! You two don't even like each other. _How dare you!_"

"What are you talking about? We—" Patricia began, but was cut off by someone coughing, someone trying to breath, someone coming back to life.

_Eddie._

Eric clutched his son closer to him, hugging him like he used to when Eddie was little. "Thank you, thank you," he whispered to himself. He was hoping Eddie would hear too.

But his son paid no attention to his father: his eyes were glued to the girl with dark hair, pale skin, and blue-grey eyes.

"You okay?" He asked in a shaky voice, continuing to breath heavily. Eric heard Patricia give a small, just as shaky laugh.

"Yeah," she whispered. Eddie nodded at her words and took her hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of her hand slowly.

Sweetie still didn't understand why they were being so kind, so gentle towards each other. It was completely out of their character.

Or that was what he thought until he saw the two in each others' arms at the graduation dance, slowly swaying to the music that filled the gym.

Oh. That's right.

(How could he have forgotten the one relationship his son had that made him feel so _alive?_)

Mr. Sweet excused himself out into the main hallway. He pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number he had been carrying around on a piece of paper for months now.

_"Thank you for calling Liverpool Hospital. You've reached Head Neurologist Dr. Mallory Greene's office. How may I help you?"_

* * *

He doesn't tell Eddie he's going to see Dr. Greene. A day passes, then a week, then two, then a month, and then another month goes by and Eddie had no clue about the appointment with Dr. Greene. Mr. Sweet had purposely scheduled it when Eddie would be back in America, attending college.

(That is what he's doing, right? It slipped his mind again, the exact university he was attending.)

Right now, Mr. Sweet was helping his son pack up all his belongings and place them in boxes, tubs, and suitcases. He was leaving in two days.

"Gonna miss this place," Eddie commented, going over to help his father lift one of the many boxes into the hallway. Mr. Sweet was surprised, happy, and so very sad all at once. He was thinking that, "Gonna miss this place," involved him as well, since he was the headmaster.

(He really, really hoped so.)

"Well, you sure have had an…um…_interesting_ time here," He said with a small chuckle. Eddie returned the laugh.

"That's for sure." Eddie agreed. They put the box down on the floor and both stood up, eyes meeting each others'. Eddie needed to ask—he wasn't going to be here forever; he needed to know. "Hey Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Who's Dr. Greene?"

Sweetie froze. He didn't want his son to know about the neurologist. He didn't want him to know that his memory wasn't all it used to be. He didn't want him to know that he was very scared if the neurologist told him something he didn't want to hear.

So he wouldn't let him know.

"Who is that?" He asked, trying to act collected.

"I don't really know," Eddie began, crossing his arms. Eric sensed that Eddie could see through the lie. "I went to your office yesterday to ask if you had booked my flight to California, but you weren't there. You phone was ringing, so I answered it and it was a Dr. Greene saying she could see you this upcoming Monday."

Eric sighed. He was so disappointed in himself partially because he was lying to his son and also because he had forgotten to book the California flight.

"I'm afraid it was a wrong number," Eric said hastily. He went back into Eddie's—Edison, his name is Edison—_Edison's_ room to grab another box. Edison followed.

"Dad, what's going on with you?" He asked, arms still crossed. "You've been so aloof lately…you're not still doing anything ancient Egyptian evil related are you?"

"Edison please, that's not it," Eric said, trying to find the words to say. How is it that the one thing he seemed to remember at the right time was what he wanted to not remember at all, so he could honestly tell Edison that he didn't know anything about that appointment? "I'm fine. It was a wrong number. I have no idea who Dr. Mallory Greene is or—"

"I didn't say her first name," Edison interrupted. The two stood there, eyes locked and not daring to move, not daring to cut the tension. When had they both started keeping secrets again? When had Eric felt that Edison didn't need to know everything? Why? When? How?

Suddenly, Sweetie couldn't remember why, or when, or how. In fact, why was his son giving him the stink-eye? Why was he mad at him?

"Edison?" He questioned, confusion taking over his face. "What's wrong? Shouldn't you be packing?"

It finally hit Edison that his Dad was being completely and utterly honest. He didn't remember the conversation they were having just a few minutes ago. The neurologist made sense. The way he acted at graduation made sense. The way he acted about the Osirian made sense. Everything was falling into place for Edison, but was falling out of place for Eric.

"We're going to see Dr. Greene right now."

* * *

"This is very unusual," Dr. Greene said slowly to Eddie and Patricia. They were out in the waiting room, listening to the brain specialist explain her theory about Eddie's father. "Most of the patients I see are well into their sixties, seventies, or eighties when they start thinking they have memory damage."

This gave Eddie a little hope. His Dad was only forty-six-years-old—he was nowhere near that old. Maybe it was just a simple problem, something Dr. Greene could easily tweak and his dad would be normal again. He would remember the little things, the big things—he would just _remember_.

"You're hurting my hand, Weasel," Patricia snapped quietly while Dr. Greene was studying something on her clipboard. Eddie looked down at their intertwined fingers and let go, the color coming back to Patricia's hand. He had called her, asked her to go with them, to be there. He was afraid she'd say no, but she was the one to arrive at the hospital first—a good ten minutes before Eddie and Mr. Sweet did.

(He didn't tell her how much that meant to him, but she knew.)

"However," Dr. Greene said, moving her head back up to look at the two eighteen-year-olds, "it's still possible for people to be diagnosed with Alzheimer's in earlier periods of life. It's just more uncommon. I'm sorry to say but…but I believe your father has had it for some time now."

Eddie didn't say anything. He just closed his eyes.

Patricia put her hand back in his.

(He didn't tell her how much that meant either, but she knew.)

* * *

Eddie didn't leave for college on Sunday—in fact, he dropped out before he even began. When he broke the news to his mom, Ellen bawled over the phone. Eric wasn't her husband any more, yes, but there was a piece of her heart that never stopped loving him. That was her son's father and sooner or later he'd forget about her, his life, Eddie…She prayed right then and there Eric wouldn't ever forget about Eddie.

Eddie watched Patricia flourish in school, as well as his other friends from Anubis House, but Patricia was the only one he really cared about. She was the only one who came by every evening to check on him and Mr. Sweet, the only one who occasionally brought over meals, the only one who stayed in touch.

(And for that, he told her, "thank you.")

Eddie stayed with Eric most of the time, now that he was no longer headmaster he didn't have much to do or no one looking after him.

(Eddie wished he could forget the look on his dad's face when he told him he couldn't be headmaster anymore. It had _devastated him_).

Eddie would come to his dad's house at seven a.m., and stay for the rest of the day until his dad fell asleep. Eddie would cook, pay bills, and help his dad do whatever he couldn't think of doing. There were some times where his father completely enraged him, for there were moments where he didn't seem like his memory was failing at all. Eric could make his own meals, remember to get the mail, drive to the store when he needed groceries and more. It made Eddie think that he could be going to school, getting a job, making his own family, doing what he wanted to do whenever he wanted to do it—he could still be that carefree, rebellious teenager he once was back in the day.

Those thoughts vanish when there are the days when it seemed like Eric couldn't do _anything. _

"Edison, where are my clothes?"

"Eddie, I forgot to pay the electric bill."

"Edison, would you mind running out to refill my prescription?"

"Oh Eddie, I-I can't remember her name, or his, or that girl's, or anyone!"

And then Eddie would perform all the odd jobs for his dad and try to make him remember things he couldn't. He would sit up late with him and retell him about experiences they shared together—most of these stories were when he was older, since he couldn't remember much before his dad left. Mr. Sweet seemed to notice.

"Edison," he asked, lying in his bed. Edison sat in the chair next to him. "Why don't you tell me memories of us when you were little?"

Edison hung his head low and closed his eyes. No matter how badly he wanted to yell at him about how upset he still was, not matter how heavy his heart felt, no matter how small he seemed to feel right then and there, he could not—no, _he would not_—remind his father of how he left him behind for ten years. He doesn't know why he doesn't tell his dad, part of him feels like Eric should know.

But some things are meant to remain in the past, unremembered.

"I don't know."

"Edison?"

"Yeah?"

"I promise that one day, our lives will be simple." He told his son, completely believing his promise would be fulfilled somehow.

* * *

The day came when Eddie realized he couldn't do this anymore.

Eddie had managed to get a job at a company that allowed him to work from home. He would usually just take his paperwork and laptop over to his dad's house and work there during the times when Mr. Sweet was stable. However, he had to go into the office today to deal with complaints.

He asked Patricia to go over to his dad's house and watch him for the day. He figured she'd be his best bet because she was the only one who still came over and helped Eddie. She knew what medicines Sweetie needed and when he needed to take it, knew where to take him if he wanted to go out—she was there to help when Eddie couldn't.

Besides, Eric _remembered_ Patricia and he hadn't had a problem with her since the whole Touchstone fiasco. Everything should be fine.

(Or that's what Eddie thought.)

Patricia picked up the key from under the mat and unlocked the door. She hadn't been over here in about four days since last week was winter finals, and based on the grades she already had, she _needed _to do well on those tests. But luckily she didn't have class today, which meant she could stay and help Mr. Sweet as long as she needed to. She and Mr. Sweet didn't have the greatest relationship when she was a student at his school: she was constantly getting into trouble, which meant that she had to face his wrath and many detentions. Then she started to date Sweetie Jr. and they eventually learned to put up with each other.

(She'd be lying if she said she didn't consider him a friend of hers.)

Patricia took off her coat and put it in the coat closet. She looked around the sitting room—Eddie had said he had left Mr. Sweet sitting on the couch eating his breakfast. He wasn't there. It had only taken Patricia ten minutes to come over, he couldn't have gotten far; most likely he was still in the apartment.

"Mr. Sweet?" She called out, venturing further into the apartment. She walked into the kitchen and there he was. He was backed into the corner, looking positively horrified, scared, and angry all at once. Patricia took one step forward and he pushed himself more into his corner.

"Mr. Sweet? What's wrong?" Patricia asked him.

"Stay back!" He yelled at her, eyes wild with fear. "I'm warning you, don't come any closer!"

"What are you talking about?" She asked, feeling a little nervous. "H-have you taken your medicine? It's 8:30; you should have taken—"

"I don't know you!" He shouted; looking so meek that it pained Patricia to see him like this. She looked over to the kitchen table and there was the package of his pills. She sighed, slightly in relief: he had remembered to take his two pills.

So why was he still behaving this way?

"Sweetie, it's Patricia," she said walking towards him. She needed to calm him down. "I'm not going to hurt you or anything."

"I said _stay away from me!_ " Mr. Sweet yelled loudly. He reacted out of fear. He caught her off guard and pushed her so forcefully that as she fell back, her head banging on the kitchen table with the loudest thud Sweetie had ever heard.

Patricia crumpled on to the floor, lying very, very still.

;;

It was noon when Eddie walked through the apartment door, in a very bad mood. He had had that job for only three months and his co-workers were complaining about his work ethic? Maybe if they knew about his dad, how he was devoting his life to taking care of him then they'd back off.

He tried to explain but ended up getting fired instead.

The door was unlocked, which he thought was strange, but figured Patricia forgot to lock it. She usually did. He took off his coat and hung it up next to hers in the closet. She was still here. He then turned and saw his father crying. Sweetie was sitting on the sofa with a box of tissues. Patricia wasn't with him, which Eddie thought was odd.

What was even more odd was that he didn't hear her voice; Patricia was _always_ talking.

"Dad?" Eddie asked, going to sit next to him. "What's wrong?"

"I-I-I d-didn't m-m-m-mean to hurt anyone!" He said, blowing his nose in a tissue. "Sh-she wasn't-t-t you and I-I was sc-scared."

Eddie didn't listen to anything else Eric had to say.

"Yacker!" He yelled, running down the hallway. Mr. Sweet could hear his son frantically opening the doors to the bathroom, his bedroom. "Yacker, where are you? Yacker!" Soon he'd be in the kitchen… "Oh my gosh, _Patricia! PATRICIA!_"

Eric heard his son shouting and cried heavier tears. Eddie knew that girl…Eddie _knew_ her and he hurt her and she hadn't woken up yet and she was still lying in the kitchen and he was too scared to check for blood and he was too scared to check if she was breathing and he couldn't remember the ambulance number and…and _Eddie knew her_…and…and…

He just wanted their lives to be simple.

Eddie ran back into the sitting room, his eyes glistening with tears. He pointed a dark scarlet finger towards his dad.

(So there _was_ blood…)

"What did you do to her?" He screamed, finally letting it all out. "Her head is bleeding: her head is _bleeding! _How long has she been like this?" Eddie paused and then waved his father off, not wanting to hear his answer. "I know what you're going to say: you don't remember. Dang it, Dad, Patricia wasn't going to _hurt_ you, she was going to _help_ you. Now look at her, she could have _died _because of _you!_ And you don't even remember it, do you? You don't remember anything: you don't remember when you left Mom and me alone for ten years, you don't remember when you forgot to pick my up at the airport, you don't remember when I told you I liked Patricia, you don't remember my graduation, my birthday, your birthday, Patricia, my mother, I'm shocked you still remember _me! _This illness is just taking you over too fast. It used to be little things that slipped your mind, like who were going to call, but now you can't recollect people you've known for years and _I can't take it anymore_."

Eddie took a breath. He had stopped crying—he was too upset to let the tears fall. All his eyes could see was red, hot anger.

"I could have gone, left you in some home with other people to look after you, but I didn't." He paused. "I could have left _you_ behind, like you did to me…but I didn't because we were close again and… I thought we were finally getting past everything…we were close again…" Eddie's voiced lowered. He looked his at Mr. Sweet straight in his eyes.

"I thought we were close, but now we're even further apart than we ever were. _Nice going,_ _Eric_."

And with that, Eddie left his father alone. He was done. He ran back to the kitchen, grabbed the phone and called an ambulance for his girlfriend (911 how could have Eric not remembered those three numbers?) Eddie grabbed all the rags he could find and pressed it to her head. The bleeding had stopped a while ago; her hair was caked with dry blood. What scared him was how much she had lost: a large pool of crimson liquid surrounded her head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her silent figure. He took her hand in his, his thumb stroking the back of her hand slowly.

Eddie didn't see Eric looking at him from the kitchen doorway.

_"I'm sorry too."_

* * *

Eddie put Eric in a home the next day.

He visited his dad maybe twice that first week—and that was pushing it. He was still too upset and it hurt him too much to go and keep telling him why he was living here in the home and not with him at his apartment. Eddie mainly went during the hours he couldn't see Patricia in because she was in the hospital that same week. He went and visited her every day, staying as long as he could.

"You know something?" Patricia said, resting her bandaged head on Eddie's chest. He had climbed in bed with her, wanting to be close to her, wanting to feel her heart beat, to see her eyes blink, to hear words come from her mouth. The doctor had told him had she been unconscious any longer, she could have been a goner. All the more reason to hold Patricia tighter, he thought, as he kissed the palm of her hand.

"Hmm?"

"He never forgot you."

Eddie didn't say anything. Patricia took that as a silent, "you're right, Yacker because you always are."

"You still going to see him when my visiting hours are over? You haven't seen him in four days."

"I don't know." He mumbled.

Patricia sighed. She was so tired and she could feel her painkiller medicine wearing off. The twenty stitches in her head burned like no tomorrow and all she wanted was to leave this awful place. She hated hospitals—people didn't always leave hospitals and that was a scary thought. Eddie being stubborn wasn't helping her mood. She closed her eyes.

"Whatever. Just…just don't do anything you'll regret, yeah? Don't do anything you'll wish _you_ could forget."

Eddie took a deep breath. Would he regret not seeing his Dad as frequently as he used to? He didn't know right then: the only thing he knew was that Patricia had fallen asleep, her head still on his chest. That gave him the excuse not to go…

…but made it impossible for him to stop thinking about her words.

* * *

Eventually time moved on, days turning into months that soon evolved into years. Mr. Sweet had continued to look outside his bedroom window, which just so happened to face the parking lot of the elderly home. He kept waiting for someone—a certain someone—to come. Mr. Sweet didn't get much attention from the fellow elderly attendants here in the home. He didn't have very many friends here; his nurse, Ms. Cecilia was the only one who would like to chat with him. But she was out today, visiting her sister and her newborn niece in London. So he sat alone.

He wasn't old when he was first checked in here; he was only forty-seven. However his mind was what aged him. Now he was an elderly. His skin was frail and so thin; his blue veins extremely visible beneath it. He only had patches of gray hair left on his balding head. His eyes had lost their shine, his clothes were too loose, and he was stuck in a wheelchair. He thought that was what happened when people turned eighty-years-old.

All he really did was look out the window, trying to remember things. There were days when he did remember things, and those were the stories he told Ms. Cecilia. Then there were other days when he would look out the window with a vacant expression, feeling incredibly light and weightless because memories could really hold people down. Then there were the days when he'd give everything he ever had to remember just one happy, beautiful thing about his life…

…his son.

That had been the only consistent thing he could remember: he had a son.

(But what was his name? He thought it was Edison, but Eddie rings a bell too…)

His son would come visit him three times a week when Mr. Sweet was originally moved into the home. His son told him he wouldn't leave him. Then it started to dwindle down to two days when his son was accepted to the same university Patricia went to, when he graduated and got a job as a teacher at their old school. Then he visited only once a week when his son married that dark haired girl and had children of his own. Twins to be specific, a boy and a girl—Sweetie's grandchildren, their names escaped his memory but he knew they were beautiful names. Now his son visited on holidays and would spend only a few hours with him—his son _did_ have a wife and children to spend time with as well. But that was it now—his son had moved on with his life. His son was happy.

And just knowing that, until the one day he would forget it, put him at _peace._

He brought his gaze away from the window when he heard his door creak open. Strange, he thought, Ms. Cecilia wouldn't be back until tomorrow. It wasn't her though, he saw a man and a woman instead. The woman had dark hair pulled back in a bun, pale skin, and blue-grey eyes. She had a small smile playing on her lips as she looked towards her husband. The man had thinning blonde hair, light skin, and green eyes.

Sweetie asked himself if he'd seen them before. He doesn't remember the woman (no shock there, he told himself,) but the man looked…familiar.

Did he just think that someone looked familiar? As if he…_remembered_ _someone?_

Eric Sweet had only been able to remember one thing and one thing only in his many years of forgetting…

…and that was his son.

His son came over and took his father's hand.

"Hi Dad."

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**Let me know what you thought, I would really appreciate feedback :)**


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